On Dark Wings: Episode 01  Birth
by Damien Nathaniel Wren
Summary: Quiverwing and her crew work feverishly to stop an assassin who preys on St. Canard's Scientific Community, while Honker deals with a few ghosts of his own.


**T-Minus 3 Minutes**

**The City of St. Canard: The Muddletech Building**

BAM!

The sound echoed violently through the tiny room and out into the quiet, marble-floored hall – punishing the ears as it did so. DW pulled back the stock on his shotgun – the so-very-familiar sound a follow-up to the previous shot.

Launchpad slouched lazily against a nearby stone pillar as the taste of cinnamon danced across his tongue – the result of casually chewing on the stick in his mouth.

Reaching up with one hand Launchpad jabbed a finger in his ear, and wiggled it around as if it would restore his hearing.

It didn't.

DW however stood silently. Adjusting his aim slightly from Alham's liver to Alham's lung he continued staring at the crocodile – his expression filled with scorn.

BAM!

Ears ringing so loudly as to drown out that oh-so-familiar sound the crocodile now watched in horror as DW calmly pulled back the stock, and took aim at the other lung.

Alham moved weakly, gasping desperately for breath as his eyes pleaded noiselessly for life.

BAM!

Darkwarrior watched – quietly relishing in the sense of satisfaction he felt as the Crocodile's body lurched violently yet again under the force of DW's double-barreled-buckshot.

It was then that Darkwarrior – taking a deep breath – took a moment to admire the precision crafting of his instrument. Its perfect symmetry, its flawless function, and the power belying its clean, beautiful lines.

Lightly stroking the barrel he felt the heat built up from shot friction, and the rapid expansion of hot gasses. He glanced down at the spent brass – still smoking.

Then – inhaling deeply – he took in the rich smell of cordite and experienced a brief, euphoric high as he did so.

Smiling now, DW took aim at the Alham's head.

BAM!

DW watched as the gator's body lurched a final time, and then stopped moving entirely.

Tossing the gun to the ground DW watched as it bounced lightly – the barrel resting on the motionless animal's chest.

"Have a nice dream."

**T-minus 72 Hours**

**The City of St. Canard**

"Quiverwing."

Quiverwing fnished bagging a hair she picked up from the carpet, carefully tagging the bag with the location of the hair in the room.

"Go ahead, Dewey."

"I've been running the current case files against current events. Mr. Shon Mueske isn't alone. He's the third scientist assassinated in just as many days."

"Assassinated?"

"Four taps, Quiverwing. One to the liver, one to each lung, and a final bullet to the forehead. What does that sound like to you?"

"Point, Dewey."

Quiverwing moved on to the next section, carefully examining the carpeting – her pen-light grasped gently between her teeth.

"I realize that no-one may have made the connection yet, but all three scientists had a few things in common."

"Dat meing?"

"Nanotechnology. And … well …"

"Shpit it out Dewey."

"Each of the scientists were contracted through various dummy corporations – each of which leading to ..."

Quiverwing interrupted – her pen-light still bouncing lightly between her lips as she spoke. "Do I haf to guesh?"

Dewey took a deep breath. "No."

"Nice."

**T-Minus 60 Hours**

**The City of St. Canard**

It was the sound of the Thunderquack's engines that alerted Morganna, prompting her to greet DW, and Launchpad in the attached hanger. She hurried on her way.

"Morganna!" Launchpad's voice was urgent … panicked. Morganna's eyes widened.

"DARK!"

Launchpad continued. "DW took two gunshot wounds. One to the shoulder, and another in his left lower abdomen. Both .45 caliber."

Darkwarrior lumbered clumsily out of the Thunderquack – Launchpad helping him on his way as Morganna ran to DW's side.

"He's lost a _lot_ of blood! Get him to the infirmary, LP and set up an IV. I'll grab a few units of blood and be right there."

"Gotcha. C'mon DW. Hold on a just a little while longer."

"Need help, Launchpad?"

Launchpad looked down from the cockpit of the Thunderquack to see Gosalyn's pretty green eyes looking up at him. "Actually I'm just finishing the clean-up."

Launchpad hopped down. "Find anything?"

"A little. We've managed to track a string of recent victims back through various dummy corporations to Muddletech's Research, and Development."

"What about the assassin?"

"Don't know, yet. We picked up a few foreign skin samples. Crocodilian."

"Beaux-Beaux?"

Gosalyn giggled. "That'd be the first guess, but the skin sample matched an entirely wrong species. At any rate, we're not sure who this is. It's an identical M.O. in each case, though: Three shots – one for each lung, and one through the center of the forehead. Each time it's the same weapon, too – a .45 caliber ACP – and each shot was taken at close range.

"I'll have to finish my analysis later though. Classes."

Launchpad's expression shifted – contemplative. "Need a lift?"

"No. I'm looking forward to riding the Hayabusa."

"You certainly do love those bikes of yours."

Gosalyn smiled. "No more than you love your airplanes." Gosalyn shifted uncomfortably, her smile now fading. "Uhm, Launchpad?"

"What happened to your father?"

"Yeah."

"It was about six hours ago. DW and I were on dual patrol – he'd taken the Ratcatcher to monitor the streets, and I was monitoring the situation from the air. DW was checking out the old abandoned warehouses by the dock when he reported hearing three gunshots in rapid succession – and that he'd decided to check them out.

"I suggested he wait for me to back him up, but well. You know your Dad."

"Yup."

"Anyways, by the time I got there and gained entry into the building, DW had already managed to get himself in it pretty deep.

"DW was facing down what looked like some kind of alligator – maybe 13 or 14 feet. Carried a couple of .45s along with what looked like various bits of hunting gear. DW got a shot or two off, but even his .50 cal Desert Eagles didn't seem to phase the guy..."

* * *

><p>BAM!<p>

Darkwarrior's shoulder slumped as the round pierced nerve, and ligament – rendering the arm useless. DW grunted – struggling to hold on to his Desert Eagle – but his fingers went limp, and it fell to the floor despite.

"Darkwarrior." The crocodile's voice was steady, cocksure. "It is an honor to see you here, and an even greater honor to face you. But you must excuse me..."

Darkwarrior let out a yell, charging as he drew his second Desert Eagle from its holster.

BAM!

The shot grazed DW's hand after striking the weapon – which he dropped. He continued the charge against the 13' crocodile despite – his own 4'7" form seeming comical in comparison. Leaning down, the croc threw a punch with his gun hand directly into DW's abdomen, and fired.

BAM!

DW staggered back, blood pouring from the gaping wound in his gut. He chuckled. "Guess this means I better slow down."

Smiling now, the croc trained its weapon on the staggering Darkwarrior.

BAM!

DW felt a shock-wave tear through his entire body – his heart skipping a beat as a painful surge of adrenaline flooded his already weakened body. Looking up now, he saw the crocodile standing there with his gun diverted upwards – over Darkwing's head – smoke rising from the barrel.

The croc roared – his Middle-Eastern accent carried thick on the back of an angry, low-pitched rumble. "_WHO_ IS RESPONSIBLE?"

A tiny, brightly lit red dot slid silently across the floor and up in between the crocodile's eyes – but not before it caught his attention.

Darkwarrior smirked - his voice weak. "Launch … pad."

"Two choices, Crocky: You evacuate the building, or _I_ evacuate your skull. Which is it?"

He looked down at DW, watching the duck finally collapse in a pool of his own blood. He'd lost far too much, and was going to die without medical attention – and soon.

Disdain in his eyes, the crocodile spat on DW's prone form.

"Have a nice dream." he said, and ran.

* * *

><p>Gosalyn's eyes shifted quickly to the left as Launchpad finished his story, then back again.<p>

"So … you think it's the same guy, Goz?"

"Maybe, Launchpad. It certainly sounds like it. Did you find any corpses?"

"After I dropped DW back here for Morganna I went back out to the warehouse. Found one guy, checked his ID. He was a college professor, I think … "

Gosalyn's phone rang.

"Hold on a sec, Launchpad." Gosalyn reached upwards, clicking on her earpiece. "This is Gosalyn... Yeah... Yeah... OK. Thanks for letting me know."

Gosalyn tapped her earpiece – turning her attention towards Launchpad. "Let me guess: Dr. Schad Atchinson – Biology."

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

"Class is cancelled today. He's my professor."

**T-Minus 48 Hours**

**The City of St. Canard**

"You … have been missed."

Honker took Gosalyn's hand gently into his own and bowed slightly – kissing the back of it. Standing now, he made a wide arc with his arm and bid her welcome to his obscenely large, marble-floored, penthouse office. The view of St. Canard was magnificent.

Gosalyn wasted no time. "Honker. There's an issue. We've got scientists being assassinated left-and-right this week. The link? They're all on Muddletech's payroll."

Honker took hold of the manilla folder being thrust at him and adjusted his designer eyeglass frames before examining the photos, and profiles of the victims. Closing the folder, he tossed it onto the rosewood desk as he leaned back in his chair.

"You already know, Gosalyn – I hire the members of my Research and Development Team personally and I don't know _any_ of these scientists. What makes you think they're mine?"

"This." Gosalyn tossed another folder at Honker containing documents tracing each scientist and their dummy corporations back to Muddletech. "And whatever those scientists developed, someone's making sure they don't talk about it."

Honker examined the documents – much more carefully this time. "I see..."

"I swear to God Honker if you're involved in ..."

"NO!" Honker shot up from his seat as he said it – slamming the folder to his desk. Gosalyn stopped speaking mid-sentence.

"I promised you, Gosalyn. I'm done with that."

"Then you won't have any problem researching these leads for me. Whoever is out there is following a definite pattern. Find out who's next, and we can catch him."

* * *

><p>Gosalyn let out a yawn as she stretched wearily. She'd been spending nearly all her time in the lab, and at the crime scenes. Until the assassin was caught, sleep was something she just couldn't afford.<p>

"Don't…" Darkwarrior placed a hand on Gosalyn's shoulder – yawning himself. "... do that!"

Gosalyn squealed as she embraced her father. "DAD!"

"What have you got?"

Gosalyn smiled. "I see Morganna got you fixed up nicely."

DW gave a smirk. "Doesn't she always?"

"So far? I have matching samples placing our crocodilian friend at each of the four crime scenes. I considered a possible link to Beaux-Beaux but this big guy's an Estuarine Crocodile – Crocodylus Porosus to be specific – so no relation. Looks like he's from the … Middle East?"

"Moroccan."

Gosalyn nodded – making note. "Other evidence – such as foot and tail marks – leads me to believe that he's maybe 16' in length, and weighs in at just over 2,200 pounds."

Darkwarrior's eyes temporarily grew larger – his pupils opening their full extent. "Whoa."

"Judging by the description Launchpad gave, and the presence of Dr. Atchinson's body at the crime scene I'd say you already faced this guy."

Darkwarrior placed a hand over his abdomen and he became distant briefly – Gosalyn snapping him back to the real world.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING!"

DW sighed, and took his place next to Gosalyn at the table. "Believe me, I've heard it enough from your mother. It doesn't bear repeating."

Gosalyn shook her head sadly while breathing deeply before resuming her work. "It's like … sometimes, Dad … it's like you have some kind of death wish or something. Do you ever stop to think about how we'd feel if we lost you? About the city you help defend? I mean … it's selfish of me to say but ..."

Darkwarrior continued working silently next to his daughter – watching her carefully as she went. As soon as Gosalyn finished with the evidence she was working on Darkwarrior placed his hand gently on hers to get her attention.

"It's been two days, Goz. Get some sleep. I'll let you know what I find in the morning."

Gosalyn turned back to the evidence, and then reluctantly back to DW.

"OK, Dad." Hugging her father, she then kissed DW lightly on the cheek. "Goodnight."

**T-Minus 36 Hours**

**The City of St. Canard**

The lab … was empty? No.

Screw empty, in fact.

It was _gone_.

The two men looked to one another in disbelief. Now standing in the very heart of an abandoned warehouse they had been asked to return to work in the lab after a month-long hiatus because of the previous project's success. But this...

"Dr. Sung Arzo?" The voice emanated from the shadows. It was deep, and resonant – its words carried aback a low rumbling, and mired in an accent betraying its Moroccan origin.

"I will not ask again."

The duck stepped forward towards the source of the sound – nervously clearing his voice as he adjusted his tie. His female companion – also dressed nicely, and wearing a lab coat – stood behind him. "Yes. I'm Dr. Arzo."

A noose fell from the ceiling around the neck of his companion, and a light came on revealing a singular, remote speaker mounted approximately 7' up.

Dr. Arzo spun to view his companion who struggled frantically – her stifled screams barely heard as she ascended rapidly skywards – hung by the neck. As she reached the top of the rig Sung felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Boo!"

Dr. Sung stepped back from his crocodilian assailant – horror in his eyes. The size, the crooked smile, the jagged teeth. All were enough to terrify in their own right. But whatever that hand-cannon was it pointed at him while it hung upside down, there ...

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

The Crocodile cut his line, landing deftly on his feet as the other Dr. fell from the sky – landing directly on her companion and making a sound not unlike a heavy THUD mixed with the sickening crackles made by crushing a dozen cheap, plastic water bottles.

The crocodile then stepped casually over to the two friends making note of the woman's small, ineffectual movements. Her eyes only slightly opened she moaned piteously – barely aware of the croc's presence.

"It came to my mind not to take on such a task, but there is someone who would pull out the tooth, and relax from it. And so it seems my leg, and your leg are tied in bastinado.

"Dr. Avis Mathina, am I right?" He smiled. "No, no. You don't have to answer.

"You _are_ a scientist, though…"

The reptile stared down at the Dr. expectantly, then realized that her senses were not at all about her. Standing, he began to walk away. His steps were slow, deliberate – calculated.

"Yes. You are a scientist. A scientist in pursuit of life. I consider myself a scientist as well. But as you travail to create the soul, I endeavor to take it." He turned back towards the scientist – a woman oblivious. "Such pursuits. They take one's mind. Do they not?"

He reached skyward – stretching his shoulders – before rolling his head slowly about his neck – stretching it as well. As slowly – as deliberately as he walked away – he returned to the dying woman's side.

"Perhaps I shall cool your breast. Or … how do you say it?" The croc let loose a reptilian smile. "Bring comfort." The croc gazed down at the woman – his expression gentle as he raised his gun.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

The croc admired his work momentarily and holstered his single, Custom S&W 625 before walking off.

"Have a nice dream."

* * *

><p>"What have you got?"<p>

Police Lieutenant Noemi Spero continued going over the data coming in via her tablet – not even bothering to look behind her. "I've owned cats that make more noise that that bike of yours."

Turning around, the Lieutenant noted exactly what she expected to see – Quiverwing leaning casually against that custom motorcycle of hers with a smile on her face – a smile which worked to conceal the far more serious demeanor below. "And you're even worse."

"Double homicide, assassination-style. M.O. Matches that of the previous case files you asked for, and my guys have already encountered a few suspicious skin-samples. Crocodilian."

Quiverwing nodded.

"The victims have been identified as Dr. Sung Arzo, and Dr. Avis Mathina – a couple of hot-shot scientists employed by Giesen-Stracener on some 'Top Secret' military endeavor."

"Giesen-Stracener?"

"Know something?"

"Yeah. Heard the name before. It's a dummy corporation which employed one of the previous victims. Belongs to Muddletech."

Noemi pulled a memory stick from her pocket, and slid it into tablet. A few taps of the touch-screen later, and she removed it – handing it to Quiverwing.

"Here. It's the digital analysis of the evidence from the current scene. I'll be able to supply more later tonight."

Quiverwing accepted the memory stick with both hands, bowing slightly.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

The Lieutenant turned around, removing an additional plastic baggie from the van. "Oh yeah, I forgot..." Quiverwing and her bike were gone.

Noemi smiled. "Nice."

* * *

><p>"How goes the analysis, Dad?"<p>

Darkwarrior turned away from his work at the computer to greet his daughter. "Making progress, Quiverwing – but not on a positive ID. More cases, same physical description, and M.O. But all in different areas of the world."

"He gets around, don't he?" Quiverwing's mind wandered momentarily before snapping qickly back into the moment. "Oh! I have this for you." She tossed Darkwarrior the memory stick.

"Got enough time?"

"Sleep is for the old, and infirm."

Gosalyn removed her mask, and sat down next to her father. "Let's keep working, then."

* * *

><p>Honker lifted the snifter to his nose and inhaled deeply – appreciating the rosy aroma. He slowly lowered the glass, then swirled it gently so as to release any trapped odors. The entirety of St. Canard unfolded before him as he stood facing the window to his penthouse office – a city he could now see as myriad points of light dancing gloriously upon a midnight canvas.<p>

Lifting the snifter to his lips Honker enjoyed its rosy aroma once more. It was stronger this time. Taking a small sip he allowed the cognac to pass slowly over his palate before swallowing.

Honker took another deep breath – stretching this time before allowing himself a smile.

"Perfect."

Honker turned around and placed his snifter on his desk – making note of a handwritten card that had been delivered. Taking it up, he opened it, and read aloud.

"I'm … coming?"

Honker dropped the card back onto the desk – stumbling backwards. A sharp pain struck just below his diaphragm, and he grew dizzy – nauseous. His back to the glass now he felt the perspiration chilling his skin. The room became a blur. His stomach heaved.

He felt himself trying to vomit. Violently. Stumbling now he reached for the phone – knocking it off the hook. No dial tone. Shoving it aside, he opened his drawer and clumsily unlocked his cell phone. His pupils immediately dilated at the sight of its display:

"NO SIGNAL"

Another violent heave wracked his body with pain – causing him to double over. He felt something – something large. It was something unnaturally large, and growing in his gut. The pain continued to increase – intense. He attempted to cry for help.

Nothing.

Another violent seizure possessed him – his mouth opening involuntarily as yet again his stomach heaved mightily in an attempt to expel the unwanted. Another heave wracked him – then another. And another.

His throat closed.

He felt himself choking – a series of violent, airless coughs working desperately to purge what the heaving seemed unable to. A light tickling at the back of his throat made it worse.

And – ever more violently than before – his stomach heaved.

He felt … whatever it was … he could feel it now on his tongue. He felt it growing – filling his mouth as it passed … stretching his jaw – replacing the taste of fine cognac with the mixed flavors of bile, and blood.

And he heaved.

Sinewy, and slick with afterbirth he felt the creature – the thing – as it passed his lips and moved finally into his field of vision – still just below his glasses. His stomach heaved again – his lungs burning under the force of powerful spasm as they attempted again to cough. A sound like vomiting finally escaped as air again rushed into his lungs – however little that might be.

And he grabbed at it as he attempted to free himself from this beast – wriggling, and squirming, and squealing as it made its way out. And then his stomach gave a final, mighty, heave.

And he stumbled back – his shirt, face, and hands covered in afterbirth. Breathless, and panting he was overwhelmed by exhaustion – but also elation. He was free.

And it … was crying.

Honker looked to the thing – crawling backwards in an attempt to put some more distance between himself and it. It began growing … larger, taller, longer … taking form. Arms, legs, beak, head, breasts, figure, until it stood – a fully adult female duck in all her glory – staring down at him with an all too familiar pair of beautiful, green eyes.

Pointing at Honker now, she smiled gently while demurely covering her breasts with her free arm. Fashioning her fingers into a gun, she pulled it back as if recoiling.

"BANG!"

Honker started awake – sitting straight up in bed – his pillowcase, and sheets soaked with sweat. He was trembling, disoriented, exhausted. His heart pounded, his muscles ached, and his lungs felt aflame, and dry.

Tenatatively he opened his eyes, the encroaching sunlight feeling as if it had cleaved his head into two. He couldn't focus. Reaching to his nightstand he grabbed his glasses, and placed them on.

And that very moment, remembered...

**T-Minus 24 Hours**

**The City of St. Canard**

"Move!"

Dr. Buchman sat in the back of the taxi-cab – his eyes darting about nervously as he frantically scanned the surrounding city.

"Can't you make this thing go any faster?"

"I cannot afford to ..."

"Here." The Dr. threw a wad of 20's onto the front seat of the cab. "Can you afford it now?"

The cabbie's eyes grew wider. "Yes, Sir!" he responded, and sped up. Taking his cell phone from his pocket Dr. Buchman quickly dialed – speaking into his earpiece.

"Yes. This is Dr. Tyrone Buchman. I'm calling to verify my arrangement. … Yes. … Yes. … Excellent. I'll need that delivered by courier to the location we discussed. 20 minutes. … Thanks."

Tyrone disconnected his call – again turning his attention to the surrounding sprawl. "Move! I told you."

"MOVE!"

"Abu Ghazi Alham Al-'Aneef Abd-Al-Rahman ibn Yusef ibn Abbas Al-Aziz"

Darkwarrior turned from his workstation to face Gosalyn – busily researching the identity of their killer. "Come again?"

Gosalyn sent the results to the room's central display via a quick string of delicate taps on her touch-screen. "Take a look."

"That's … actually his name."

Gosalyn laughed. "Apparently Arabs have a more complex system of naming. It means … Father of Ghazi, Alham the Violent, Servant of The Compassionate, son of Yusef, grandson of Abbas the Powerful."

"Short version?"

"Alham Al-Aneef Abd-Al-Rahman. Estuarine Crocodile born in … Rabat. Moroccan. Length: 14 feet. Weight: 2,200 pounds. Let's see …

"A big-game hunter, and weapons expert he's kind of a stereotype, actually. Traveled the world, collected trophies … hunted just about every kind of big game there is."

"And the scientists?"

"The last in what appears to be a sudden string of killings matching his M.O. involving scientists, engineers, and technicians stretching from Germany, to Japan, to the United States"

"Where it ends – currently – in St. Canard."

"Precisely."

"I want this guy. And I want him _tonight_."

Gosalyn smiled. "Then you just might be in luck. Dewey received an encrypted e-mail from Honker this morning with no key. He made it simple enough for Dewey to crack, but … well … take a look."

Gosalyn tapped lightly on the table's surface bringing up the decrypted message for Darkwarrior to see – his face twisting into a scowl.

Gosalyn leaned against a counter-top – still smiling. "Well, Dad? I _know_ you want him. And he's way more than I can handle on my own."

"One question: Any idea how Muddlecorp got mixed up in this?"

Gosalyn shook her head. "Nope."

"Next time we see Honker we'll be sure to ask."

**T-Minus 12 Hours**

**The City of St. Canard**

"What are you doing?"

Dr. Buchman casually reached over and turned on the comm's microphone. "This is what you call 'hiding out' Mr. Muddlefoot. Or did you honestly think none of your tools would figure out that a brand-new set of .45 caliber body-piercings to the liver, lungs, and head might be a 'bad thing'?"

"You're guilty of trespassing on private property, breaking-and-entering, vandalism, and theft. How far are you willing to ..."

"CALL OFF YOUR DOG, MR. MUDDLEFOOT!"

"He's _not_ my 'dog'."

"LIAR! I traced your little trail of dummy corporations all the way back not only to Muddletech – but to documents signed by YOUR OWN HAND!" The Dr. frantically opened a manilla folder and grasped desperately at the documents it contained – waving the sheets in front of the camera. "You want to talk 'guilty'? How's about conspiracy to commit murder!"

"I can appreciate your situation Dr. Buchman so I will give you 12 hours. Make whatever arrangements you need, but you WILL be leaving that room. Whether you leave on your own, or I extract you with the help of the local police. It's all the same to me."

"The … Police?"

The monitor went dead – Dr. Buchman sitting slowly on the edge of the chair. He placed a hand over his muzzle – his eyes wild.

"Could I be wrong? No … No … Not wrong. Not wrong."

Staring at the documents now, he flipped quickly through them – verifying the signatures. Everything seemed in place … _seemed_ to be ...

No... No. He _couldn't_ be wrong.

Could he?

Dr. Buchman cast his eyes upwards, wailing piteously.

"But I don't _want_ to die."

* * *

><p>"Lock him in."<p>

Dewey stared at Darkwarrior in utter disbelief. "Are you certain that's the right thing to do?"

"Absolutely._"_

_ "_OK. But if this one goes south, I don't know you." The monitor then flickered briefly, and he was gone. Darkwarrior then returned to task – cleaning and inspecting his 'equipment' for the upcoming run.

Quiverwing approached Darkwarrior cautiously. DW's last encounter with Alham had not just left him within an inch of his life – it made it personal.

"Dad?"

"Tonight's success hinges on knowing Dr. Buchman's exact location. If he runs off ..."

"We lose."

"Exactly."

"And while you handle the heavy-weights, I'll move in to establish a G9 wireless connection to Muddletech's secured servers. That will make them accessible to Dewey from the outside..."

"... and give him access to the information we need to finally make sense of this mess."

"Right."

* * *

><p>"Dr. Buchman? Your security escort is here. We are now inside of Muddletech at the location you described."<p>

"Good." he replied – and hurriedly gathered his belongings before punching in the access code to open the panic room door. A rapid series of soft clicks came in response – followed by the gentle, feminine voice wielded by the security system's computer:

"Incorrect."

Dr. Buchman tried again. Calmly this time.

"Incorrect."

Panicking slightly, the Dr. checked his notes before entering the code a third time – carefully verifying every keystroke as he made it. Confident, he pressed the '#' key.

"Incorrect."

The Dr. drew in a sharp breath as panic began to overtake him yet again. He checked the time on his personal comm – he still had 3 hours. "What's going _on_ here?" He entered the code again.

"Incorrect."

The Dr. began looking about – uncertain of what action to take next. He attempted to call out using the Panic Room's comm. No good.

But it still seemed that calls could come _in_. Responding to the blip on the screen, he answered.

"This _isn't funny_ Mr. Muddlefoot."

"This _isn't_ Mr. Muddlefoot."

Dr. Buchman blinked as he put on his glasses – getting a clear view of the screen for the first time.

"Who are you?"

"A friend, Dr. Buchman – and someone who is saving your life. You leave that room and – I promise you – you're dead.

"An assassin by the name of Alham Abd-Al-Rahman has already taken up a position on the Muddletech Campus perimeter and is watching this building intensely.

"You leave. You die."

* * *

><p>Alham set a series of carefully designed shaped charges at key points on the door – charges designed to cut through the hinges, and locks securing the Panic Room's door. Stepping back the prescribed 10', he hit the detonator.<p>

"FOOM!"

Dr. Buchman started – his body flooding with adrenaline as he watched the bits of metal and flashes of fire blast their way into the Panic Room – the shrapnel imbedding itself in the far wall.

A moment later, the door fell – landing hard, with a resounding, metallic CLANG! Dr. Buchman hid under the console as he clasped his hands tightly over his muzzle, and prayed.

Alham calmly stepped forward – and into the room – where he began looking around. After a moment, he opened his revolver – removing the set of wad-cutters he'd put in and replacing them with a full set of armor-piercing rounds.

"Dr. Buchman. I do know you're in here, my friend – I watched you enter." Carefully, Alham leveled his Chromed, Custom S&W at the console – admiring it as it glittered slightly in the Panic Room light.

"I do want to thank you though." He laughed. "As scientists go? You've been my very best challenge, yet!"

Tchk-Tchk!

Alham wheeled around at hearing the sound – attempting to get a sight on the shot-gun wielding Darkwarrior and his companion.

"Ah. So I see you survived. That's good!"

Darkwarrior wasted no words.

BAM!

**T-Minus Zero**

**The City of St. Canard: The Muddletech Building**

"You ready, DW?"

Launchpad stood up off the pillar he was leaning on – flicking away the cinnamon-flavored toothpick he'd been chomping. Walking over to the Alham's lifeless form, he carefully checked the croc's pulse. His expression neutral he looked to Darkwarrior.

"That's a pretty thorough job for not killin' him. Pretty nice touch loading that last shot with blanks.

"But his pulse is pretty weak. You probably gave the guy a heart attack!"

The task now done, exhaustion had not only replaced the malice in DW's eyes, but colored the mallard's voice as well."He'll live."

"Hey, DW. How'd you know he was wearing Body Armor?"

"I didn't. Where's Quiverwing?"

"Dewey's been trackin' her and sendin' the data to my comm. She's up on the 30th floor. According to Dewey the G9 link is in, and active but she ran into Muddletech's S.O.R.T. Ops. So … she's probably doin' some damage of her own right now."

"Then let's go."

* * *

><p>"Dewey!"<p>

Dewey sat at the bank of computer monitors working frantically to keep up with the excessive number of camera feeds he was tracking. He hurriedly matched his observations to a map.

"Left!"

Quiverwing looked ahead to her left – nocking an arrow. Jumping left into the corridor she ran briefly along the wall – firing an arrow into the floor before continuing her run down the hall. Her pursuers closed in on the arrow – 3 quick beeps their only warning.

BOOM!

Quiverwing didn't waste time looking back.

"Whatcha got, Dewey? And you better _not _answer 'time'!"

"There's a staircase ahead – go down two floors and then re-enter the main space. DW and Launchpad are on their way. I'm directing them to rendezvous with you now."

Quiverwing broke through the door, sliding down the bannister of one flight, then the next.

"Keen, Dewey!"

Kicking in the door, Quiverwing took another look around – compound bow at the ready.

"Where to next?"

Dewey didn't answer.

"Dewey?"

"Uhm … Quiverwing?"

"Yes, Dewey?"

"Sorry about that."

Quiverwing listened as the sound of something large began to approach her position from inside. Stepping back she heard the sounds of her initial pursuers above her, and someone else was approaching from below.

Quiverwing's shoulders sunk. "Merde."

* * *

><p>"Deuteronomy if <em>anything<em> happens to my little girl ..."

"If anything did, DW I'd shoot myself."

"Good."

Launchpad continued charging up the staircase with DW close on his heels, and both taking direction from Dewey. Launchpad was the first to ask.

"Alright, Dewey. Where now?"

* * *

><p>Quiverwing checked her options. She could hear 3 above, and perhaps 7 below. She didn't want to even <em>think<em> of what might be coming from inside. She took a quick step back, knocked an arrow, and attached a line – but not before her pursuers found their mark.

"There!"

Quiverwing counted the shots. One, two, three – all in rapid succession – came before she could pull the trigger herself – launching the arrow upwards. A fraction of a second later its model rocket engines kicked in – hurling it skywards and driving the point firmly into the ceiling.

Three more shots rang out, then four. Quiverwing could see the security force from below now. She gave the line a solid tug.

Quiverwing reached into her bag as she retracted the line – tossing down a handful of teargas pellets as she went. She then waved, and smiled cutely as she ascended.

"Bai Bai!"

* * *

><p>"OK. Launchpad?"<p>

"Yeah, Dewey?"

"Quiverwing just made a rapid ascent, and is on the roof. She did a good job of shaking the team on her tail, but I figure she's probably only got about three minutes before they catch on."

"Gotcha!" Launchpad held out a hand stopping Darkwarrior dead in his tracks. He began looking around the area – scrutinizing.

"What is it, LP?"

"Quiverwing's on the roof!" Just as quickly as he could say the words, Launchpad took off in a full sprint towards the building's outer wall. Darkwarrior was right behind him – guns at the ready.

"Give her support. I'll handle things in here, and then join you."

Launchpad smiled as he slapped a charge on the building's exterior window.

"One step ahead o' ya!"

The sound of exploding plastique mixed with the shattering of glass as Launchpad blew out the exterior window.

"See ya up top!" he said, and jumped.

Darkwarrior shook his head as he holstered one of his Desert Eagles, and attached an infra-red flashlight under-barrel on the other. Switching the lenses in his mask he ran into the darkened corridor.

"Let's get dangerous."

* * *

><p>"Honker!"<p>

Quiverwing burst through the door leading to the roof only to be greeted by her childhood friend – his helicopter waiting restlessly on the helipad behind him. A rush of emotions assailed her.

"Why are you here?" Quiverwing's voice came out icy, cruel. Threatening.

"Someone has been holed up in my Panic Room for the last 24 hours or so. I came to check it out. Take it back."

Honker paused – looking downwards. His head drooped. For a brief moment he more resembled the frightened 10-year-old from 12 years ago than he did the nearly unshakeable corporate marauder he'd become as Muddletech's primary shareholder, and CEO.

"Something … Something has happened, Quiverwing. There's something you _need_ to know." Honker cleared his throat, and corrected his posture as he again looked Quiverwing in the eyes – regaining both his composure, and decorum.

"Remember the issues I had with the initial CIDs? The 'side-effects' that resulted when they were used to communicate directly between animals."

"You mean _control_ them."

Honker ignored her. "There was another side effect. A result of that massive electrical charge you introduced into the system through Beaux-Beaux."

"Your personality split. I know."

"What you may not know is that after a short time we could no longer reach her."

"It was subdued."

"_She_ was creating her own body."

Quiverwing froze momentarily – the ice in her voice melting rapidly.

"What?"

"Chimera – the other 'me' – had begun utilizing an updated CID network to express herself through another body. That's why she ceased to surface. That's why we lost contact.

"When she required my identity to serve some specific end, she'd just take over. I'd sign over the tech, approve the new projects, whatever. Once that was done I'd wake up unaware of what just happened."

"Fine, Honker. But I still don't get what this has to do with me?"

"When she created her body she modeled it after my ideal woman."

"So."

"She modeled it after _you._"

* * *

><p>"Dewey! Am I near Quiverwing's last known position in the building?"<p>

Dewey listened as the sound of groaning metal accompanied the snapping, crunching, and splintering of a varied assortment of office furniture, and cubicle walls.

"Yeah. How'd you ..."

Darkwarrior ducked below the massive, troll-like metallic fist and leaped up to sit upon the armor's massive shoulders. He found weaknesses – securing bolts on either side of the "neck" - and drew his other Desert Eagle. He had managed to place both of them point-blank and fire before being shaken off – Dewey wincing in response to the sound.

"Lucky guess."

Darkwarrior began circling with his armored opponent – wading his way through the wreckage. His eyes darted frantically about his opponent checking for weaknesses, for movement, for any information that might give him an edge.

He suddenly dropped and rolled, that same enormous fist slamming into the floor where Darkwarrior once stood. Quickly drawing his shotgun Darkwarrior fired a grenade into its wrist – recoiling from the blast.

The armor howled as if alive.

Re-holstering the shotgun Darkwarrior recovered his Desert Eagle only a split second before he began circling with the armor again. Its lower arm had been completely blown off in the blast, and the right side of its torso and head had taken damage as well. A spark arced its way randomly between exposed circuits.

Darkwarrior smiled. "You know … you kinda remind me of this teddy bear I once knew."

The armor growled in response.

"Know what I learned?"

Darkwarrior diverted his attention momentarily as he pulled a spare grenade from his belt. The armor – seeing its opening – lunged forward. DW simply stood his ground – stuffing the grenade into the exposed circuitry before rolling back and out of the way.

"I learned your armor's not nearly as strong on the inside."

FOOM!

DW's charge exploded rupturing the armor's chest, and scattering shrapnel. The damaged armor fell backwards – slamming to the floor and exposing its operator.

DW stood in amazement.

"Gosalyn?"

Launching herself forwards the pilot tackled DW and sprayed mace into his face, and eyes before rolling off and making her escape. Darkwarrior quickly stood – thankful for his mask's protective lenses. Despite that, he could still feel the burning of his skin.

"Dewey! Where's Quiverwing?"

"Uhm … on the roof?"

"You're positive?"

"Yeah, DW. What's this about?"

"Forget it. I'm heading topside."

* * *

><p>Honker leaned to one side – tilting his head slightly as he watched the members of his company's S.O.R.T. Ops file out of the door to the roof. Now standing in a straight line from left-to-right they leveled their rifles – all of them pointing at Quiverwing.<p>

Honker stepped forward. "STAND DOWN!"

The S.O.R.T. Ops looked at one another briefly.

"STAND DOWN! That's an ORDER!"

"Uhm, Honker?" Quiverwing tapped his shoulder. "That's not _your_ S.O.R.T. Team."

"Wha?"

Quiverwing grabbed Honker by the wrist and began running immediately before the team opened fire – a deadly spray of bullets flying around them. Quiverwing threw Honker behind a large A/C unit, and quickly followed.

"YOU OK?"

Pointing, Honker didn't try to compete with the noise of automatic fire. He'd been grazed in the calf – twice – and there was another wound on his right forearm.

And unfortunately – with the S.O.R.T. Team advancing on their position – this wasn't exactly the time for First-Aid. Tearing Honker's pant leg she quickly dipped her finger in his blood – drawing the Kanji for "Heal" above the wounds. She then held her hands over the wound – palms out.

"IYASU!"

Honker let out a yelp – a reaction from the sensation of intense heat shooting through the wound, and up through his leg, and spine. Quiverwing's attention already back on the S.O.R.T. Team – Honker checked his wounds. They were gone.

"How did you?"

"My mother's a sorceress, remember?"

"But … you're ..."

Quiverwing smiled, gently touching the wound in her abdomen. "This? It hurts a lot, but it's OK. We don't have time, though.

"When I say 'Go' break for the chopper. I'll be right behind you."

Quiverwing rolled out a small number of teargas pellets, then nocked an arrow and relinquished cover. "GO!"

Honker took off – the pellets detonating and creating a thick layer of smoke to act as cover.

A layer of smoke which promptly blew away.

Quiverwing's shoulder's dropped.

"Merde."

Darkwarrior rushed through the exit to the roof – blood in his eyes, and a glimmering Desert Eagle in each hand. Immediately noticing the oncoming cloud of tear-gas he wrapped his cape over his beak, and around his body to protect himself, and rushed forward.

Launchpad had placed the Thunderquack in a hover not 20 feet from the Helicopter's still rotating blades and was turning it slowly to face their assailants. Everyone on the roof braced against the wash of her engines – all eyes pointed upwards.

Launchpad's voice broke out over the Thunderquack's loudspeakers. "STAND DOWN! Or I open fire and the undertaker spoons what left of you into coffins. What's your answer?"

The S.O.R.T. Team dropped their weapons, and ran – buffeting Darkwarrior on their way to the entrance.

Darkwarrior shook his head, and smiled.

Quiverwing – however – passed out.

* * *

><p>Gosalyn felt herself ascending lightly – her sleep now encroached upon by familiar voices, and laughter. Waking gently, she smiled to see a familiar ceiling – and her family gathered around her.<p>

"Launchpad?"

"Yes, Gosalyn?"

"Since when did the Thunderquack have weapons?"

Morganna looked at Launchpad. "Weapons? On the Thunderquack?"

Launchpad smirked, and looked embarrassed as he lightly scratched his head just above the ear. "Uh, yeah … It _doesn't_ have any. But they didn't know that."

Gosalyn laughed. "Obviously."

_fin._

25


End file.
